“They’re … not around anymore,” I reply in a low voice; bowing my head a touch because it feels appropriate.
“Oh, right. I’m sorry.”
Perhaps minded of his own mortality, George hastens the conversation along.
“What did you do out there, for a job?”
“I worked for an advertising company but unfortunately they made me redundant. I couldn’t get another job so I thought I’d come home in the hope there would be opportunities in the UK.”
“And are there?”
I shake my head.
“It’s been a disaster, coming here. The bad luck Father O’Connor referred to is … well, it’s a living nightmare, really. I’ve got nowhere to live, no job, and I barely recognise this country. Even the money is alien; not that I have any.”
My sob story is more for Father O’Connor’s benefit than George’s. As welcome as a good meal might be, being here doesn’t address any of my problems and I need the priest to understand just how grim my prospects are.
“Life can be tough, lad,” George sighs. “No mistake there.”
“I’m not looking for charity,” I add, although a state handout wouldn’t go amiss. “I just want a job and a roof over my head whilst I work out how I get back.”
“You don’t want to stay here?”
“I have to go back. Coming here has been … let’s say I’m not where I should be.”
“Maybe, young Toby, this is a conversation you and I should have later?” Father O’Connor interrupts.
“Yes, of course. Sorry, to burden you with my problems, George.”
“Trust me lad, I know what you’re going through. When I moved down here from Yorkshire with my Alice after the war, it felt like I’d moved to a different country. And mark my words: it was a damn sight tougher in those days, as Father Michael will testify.”
“Yes, I remember it well,” Father O’Connor sighs. “Though not with any great fondness, mind. I came back from North Africa just after the surrender but the Luftwaffe had done their worst by that point. I had to visit London just after VE Day and the devastation I witnessed will haunt me to the grave.”
“Aye, and then there were the shortages: homes, jobs, food … at one point I thought we’d be living on rations for the rest of our lives.”
“Grim times, they were.”
The two men then share a reflective moment of silence as they sip Scotch. My Dad was born in the fifties so he would have missed all the post-war fallout. Still, that’s never stopped him wanging on about the hardships my grandparents faced during and after. Frankly, the tales are becoming tiresome.
“What do you do for a living, George?” I ask.
“I’m a plumber,” he replies, snapping out of his malaise.
“Oh, wow. My dad owned a plumbing business.”
“An honest profession, lad, and there’s always plenty of work around. Shame you didn’t follow in your father's footsteps.”
“Yeah, he may have suggested that once or twice.”
“Why didn’t you listen to him?”
Because I didn’t want to spend my life unblocking toilets and fixing leaky taps.
“I thought a career in advertising would be exciting.”
“And is it?”
“My career hasn’t developed quite the way I hoped.”
“It’s never too late to switch horses. You never know; maybe plumbing is in your blood.”
“Yes, maybe,” I smile, unconvincingly.
Father O’Connor then poses a question to George about septic tanks. As the conversation literally turns to shit — storage thereof — my mind turns to the prospect of food. As wonderful as the aroma now emanating from the kitchen is, it’s verging on unbearable. My thirst isn’t helping, either.
“Sorry to interrupt, George, but can I grab myself a glass of water, please?”
“Course you can. Follow your nose to the kitchen and one of the girls will sort you out.”
I thank him and return the barely touched tumbler of Scotch to the drinks trolley.
“I’ll finish that after lunch.”
The two men resume their conversation as I wander out into the hallway. I approach the kitchen door, half open it, and poke my head through the gap.
“Um, George said it would be okay if I grab a glass of water.”
Alice looks up from a tray of roast potatoes and smiles.
“Jan, can you be a poppet and get Toby a glass of water?”
Jan is at the sink in a kitchen more dated than the dining room and pokier than even the kitchen in my flat. There are no built-in cupboards, let alone built-in appliances, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Druids previously owned the oven.
“What did his last slave die of?” Jan huffs.
“Insolence, my girl. Do as you’re asked, please.”
Jan wipes her hands on a tea towel and turns to face me.
“Ice and lemon?”
“Oh that would be …”
"I’m pulling your leg. This isn’t The Ritz, you know.”
“Right.”
She snatches a glass from a shelf and fills it at the sink. Half-a-dozen stomped steps across the lino and the glass is thrust in my direction.
I look her in the eye and smile.
“Thank you, Jan.”
Despite her obvious disdain, I’d have to concede Jan’s face is the right side of pretty. Not that she’s aware of it, but her conservative dress hasn’t been in fashion for five decades so it’s tricky to get a handle on her exact age. She could be twenty or she could be thirty, or anywhere in between.
I neck the entire glass in three gulps.
“Thirsty, were we?”
“Parched. Don’t suppose I could use the bathroom before lunch; just to freshen up?”
“Turn right at the top of the stairs.”
I hand the glass back to Jan.
“Thanks.”
She returns to the sink without another word. I head to the bathroom.
The serviceman’s refuge offered rudimentary washing facilities but as I stand in front of the toilet, I look longingly at the bathtub. What I wouldn’t give for a long soak or better still, a shower.
I finish up and wash my hands. I’m about to dry them when a can of deodorant on the window ledge snags my attention. It would be pushing the limits of George and Alice’s hospitality to run a bath but I’m sure they wouldn’t refuse me a quick squirt of deodorant. Popping the lid off, I slide the can under my polyester shirt and spray both armpits. The scent isn’t masculine, but it’s preferable to the stench of body odour.
Feeling slightly more fragrant, I skip back down the stairs to the dining room where George and Father O’Connor are now settled at the dining table.
“How are they doing in the kitchen?” George asks. “I’m famished.”
“Nearly there, I think.”
“Good. Grab yourself a chair.”
I sit down next to Father O’Connor with George planted at the top of the table.
“We’ve just been having a chat about your situation,” George remarks.
“Oh.”
“I think I might have a solution to your predicament if you’re prepared to do some proper grafting.”
“Right, well, yes. Definitely. Can I ask what you have in mind?”
“I’ve just taken on a contract to refit a dozen bathrooms at a hotel across town. It’s a big job so I could do with another pair of hands.”
Ahh, shit.
A sudden sense of foreboding arrives. I shouldn’t have mentioned what my dad did for a living.
The door swings open as Alice appears with two dinner plates piled high.
“Who’s hungry?” she chirps.
I was. Now, the prospect of following in my dad’s yet-to-be-trodden footsteps has taken the edge off my appetite.
20.
Such a pity I wasn't able to post a photo of my lunch on Instagram as I can’t recall enjoying a meal so much. Slow-cooked beef with crispy roa
st potatoes, three types of veg, and an unusual but delicious cake-like delicacy Alice called ‘batter pudding’.
I lay my knife and fork on the empty plate.
“That was amazing. Thank you.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Alice replies. “I hope you’ve got room for dessert.”
“Oh, definitely.”
With appetites ravenous, conversation over lunch proved polite but perfunctory, and George didn’t expand on his offer of temporary employment. Now, as ice maiden Jan collects the empty plates and Alice departs for the kitchen, he turns to me.
“So, what do you think then, lad? Fancy being a plumber’s mate for a few weeks?”
“Err, sure, if you think I’m up to it.”
“It’s mainly fetching and carrying so I think you’ll cope. Can you drive?”
“I can.”
“Even better. I spend half my life going back and forth to the plumber’s merchant.”
“And when did you want me to start?”
“Tomorrow, at seven-thirty sharp.”
“Right.”
“And the wage is four quid a day.”
“Four quid?” I blurt.
“I know — it’s more than I’d usually pay but this job is important.”
George has wrongly taken my shock as a positive response. In fairness, it could well be a decent wage — it just doesn’t sound like it.
“There’s just one small issue, George. I don’t have a bank account.”
“And?”
“How are you going to pay me?”
“I don’t know how you did things in America but here, you’ll get a pay packet every Friday.”
“Cash, you mean?”
“Aye.”
“Oh, great. And what about training? I presume I’ll have to do some kind of health and safety induction?”
“Will you buggery,” he chortles. “The training is simple: I say jump, and you ask how high. Got it?”
“Got it.”
To save George from further questioning, Alice returns; clutching what could be the world’s largest trifle. Jan followers her in with the bowls.
“Young Toby is going to be my new mate,” George declares. “His dad was in the trade.”
“That’s great news,” Alice says. “Let’s hope he fares better than the last three.”
“Err, last three?”
“They were all shirkers,” George shrugs. “I’m sure Toby isn’t afraid of a hard day’s work, are you lad?”
“Not at all,” I lie.
“That’s the spirit. You’ll be fine.”
I glance across at Jan and her wry smile only adds to my concern. Just as I contemplate bolting from the table and running all the way back to the printworks, Alice places a huge serving of trifle in front of me. Perhaps I’ll hang around a little longer.
“It’s Alice’s speciality,” George says proudly. “You won’t find a better sherry trifle this side of the Pennines.”
One spoonful is enough to determine he’s right and silence falls across the table as everyone digs in. George is the first to pause for breath.
“Toby lived in America,” he announces to no one in particular. “California, wasn’t it, lad?”
“Yep.”
“Gosh, really?” Jan pipes up.
I glance across and, for the first time since we met, she’s not glaring at me like I’ve just been caught sifting through her underwear drawer.
“Have you been to Hollywood?”
“Err, yes.”
I’ve been to the restaurant Planet Hollywood a few times. Pretty much the same thing.
“That’s amazing,” she gushes. “I’ve always wanted to visit America. What’s it like?”
Trying to encapsulate the essence of an entire country in a few words is impossible. However, I much prefer this version of Jan and I’d rather she hung around for the rest of the afternoon.
“It’s a land of unimaginable contrasts.”
A concise but profound description; almost certainly borrowed from a travel documentary.
“How long did you live there?”
“Seventeen years. I moved there as a kid with my parents.”
George looks puzzled and interrupts.
“About that: why would a plumber move to America? Haven’t they got enough of their own over there?”
Another hole. Shit.
“Oh, um, it wasn’t because of my dad’s work. My mum’s career.”
“And what did she do?”
Say something. Anything.
“She’s, um … a computer programmer … for a company called Microsoft.”
Mum did most of Dad’s admin and used Excel and Word so it’s not technically a lie.
George shakes his head.
“What’s the world coming to?”
“Sorry?”
“A wife’s place is in the home, lad. And what sort of company let’s a woman mess around with complex machines?”
I almost choke on my trifle. It’s a different time, I know, but I’m stunned by George’s casual sexism. Equally shocking is Alice’s obvious indifference to her husband’s attitude.
“Don’t be such a dinosaur, Dad,” Jan chides. “I think it’s inspiring, and it sounds a lot more exciting than my tedious job.”
“What …. what do you do, Jan?” I splutter, still reeling from George’s statement.
“I’m just a lowly typist in an accounts department.”
“Only until you get married,” Alice adds. “And then you’ll be too busy producing some long-overdue grandchildren for us.”
“I need a husband first, Mum,” Jan huffs. “And there’s slim pickings in this town.”
“You’re too fussy, my girl. That’s your problem.”
“You’d rather I got hitched to any old Tom, Dick, or Harry?”
“No, but you’re not getting any younger. You don’t want to be left on the shelf like your Aunt Barbara.”
Jan doesn’t reply and sulkily turns her attention back to the trifle. I get the impression this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.
“This is lovely,” Father O’Connor remarks, in a veiled attempt to change the subject. “Best trifle I’ve ever tasted.”
“You’re too kind, Father.”
Glad not to be the topic of conversation, I quietly shovel down my dessert.
When all five bowls are empty and everyone’s belly is fit to burst, Alice and Jan clear the table. I’d love nothing more than an afternoon nap but George invites Father O’Connor and I out to the garden where we’re given a tour of his beds and borders in mind-numbing detail. I’ve never owned a garden and never want to; not least because I still have the mental scars from Dad forcing me to mow the lawn as a teenager. It seemed so pointless — you mow the bloody lawn and then two weeks later, do it again. Why? Either leave it to grow or get rid of it altogether.
Salvation comes in the form of Alice when she arrives with a tray laden with cups, saucers, and a china teapot; a still sulky Jan on door-opening duties.
“Tea’s up,” she calls out from the patio.
The five of us reassemble at a rickety wooden table which looks like it might have been knocked up in the shed. The chairs look no sturdier but I take one when George offers.
As Alice pours the tea, it occurs I've had no form of caffeine since the Coke at the cafe. Considering my usual daily intake, I wonder if my headaches have been as much to do with caffeine withdrawal as they have dehydration and lack of sleep.
Two cups of strong tea help address the balance.
As the conversation turns to parish gossip, my mind drifts away. Compared to how I felt a few hours ago, I’m almost content here in the bosom of complete strangers on a quintessentially perfect summer afternoon; hazy and still.
Jan gets up and stacks the cups and saucers back on the tray. Perhaps she’s as bored with the conversation as I am.
“Do you want a hand?” I offer.
“Putting cups on a
tray?”
“No, with the washing up.”
“Err, if you like.”
“Don’t you dare,” Alice interjects. “I won’t have guests doing the dishes.”
“I don’t mind, Alice,” I protest. “Actually, I won’t take no for an answer — it would at least go some way to repaying your hospitality.”
“Just let him help if he wants to, Mum,” Jan adds. “It’ll make a pleasant change to see a man at the sink.”
Permission granted, I follow Jan back to the kitchen.
“I’m guessing you don’t have a dishwasher?” I enquire as she transfers crockery from the tray to the kitchen side.
“A what?”
“You know? An appliance which does the washing up.”
“Are you pulling my leg?”
“Err, no. Maybe they haven’t caught on over here yet. Shall I wash or dry up?”
“You can dry up,” she replies, tossing a tea towel in my direction. “Just put everything on the side when you’re done. I’ll put it away.”
“Gotcha.”
“And you can tell me that story while you’re doing it.”
“What story?”
“The one you mentioned in the car. You said I shouldn’t judge you until I’d heard your story so here’s your chance to tell it.”
She hands me the first saucer.
“Right, yes. Long story short, I came back from America with limited funds and those funds ran out yesterday. I’m now homeless and virtually penniless.”
“Why did you come back?”
“I lost my job and thought there would be more opportunities in the UK.”
“What do you do?”
“Advertising. Well, marketing.”
“I would have thought there would be plenty of opportunities in London. Why didn’t you go there?”
“My marketing speciality is … it’s a bit niche and I’ve since discovered there isn’t much call for it here yet; even in London.”
I swap the saucer in my hand for one on the draining board.
“Don’t you have family?”
“Sadly not.”
“Friends?”
“Not here. The only people I know are Father O’Connor and your parents.”
“And me.”
“Yes. And you.”
She turns to face me.
“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. It must be awful not having anyone you can turn to.”
Tuned Out Page 17
